


a viper’s golden age.

by pevnsie



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, this one is for the trans and the gays...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pevnsie/pseuds/pevnsie
Summary: as narnia enters its golden age, free of the white witch jadis, the pevensie’s must learn what it means to be high rulers of such a great country. edmund, as it were, is never sure he’ll settle or be worthy.
Kudos: 5





	a viper’s golden age.

_Swords clashing, creatures screaming: the sound of metal against metal filled the field, and the air was heavy, hot with war. Edmund’s helmet kept swivelling in his eyes and his sword was beginning to feel too weighted in his hands, like a stone he refused to cast thinking (knowing) it ensured his survival. Even at the very first battle cry, it had all felt so strange; only a few days ago he was just another kid, trying to avoid the war and distracting himself with the trivial messes in life, and now, he was fighting for not only his life, but the lives of hundreds of thousands of others, all over some prophecy handed down by talking lion. Here he was, twelve years old, partially the reason behind all of this madness, suited as if he were a dazzling knight who had any idea what he was doing._

_With his size and inexperience, it was a wonder he had made it as far as he had. Perhaps it was the adrenaline keeping him on his feet, or, more realistically, Aslan’s grace. Or, maybe, just maybe, it was the need to fight, the need to prove himself as a protector. He was, by all technicality, a traitor, and once again, one of the causes of this bloodshed to begin with. A minotaur towered over him, big and imposing, and some deep-buried instinct instructed him to sweep low, go for its weak spot, and even though it was the enemy, its howl of pain made the guilt in his chest grow ten times larger. It landed on the ground with a hefty thump, and as he raised his sword and finished it off, he felt just as cold as the White Witch._

_Over all the noise and humdrum, he heard his name, yelled just as he knocked a wounded minotaur to the ground. When he turned his head, Edmund saw Peter—valiant and brave, only a few yards away, his armor glistening fiercely in the sun’s light._

_“There’s too many!” he cried. At first, Edmund couldn’t process what he was saying. The adrenaline was too much for him to handle in the moment. His eyes caught a flicker of movement just beside Peter, and his jaw dropped, ready to issue a warning, only for his brother to continue: “Get out of here! Get the girls, and get them home!” With that, it seemed Edmund’s waste of breath was better left saved anyway, as Peter was quick to raise his shield against the impending threat. Lucky he noticed._

_“You heard him, let’s go!” exclaimed Mr. Beaver, who Edmund hadn’t even realized was there until that very moment._

_Boy flinched as the animal grabbed at his wrist and began to drag him, and his gaze darted wildly between Mr. Beaver and Peter, who fought with everything that he had. Be like it Peter to steal all the glory, he thought to himself with a pang of terror: Peter would give his life to this place, to Narnia, and that was something that Edmund didn’t want to let happen. To lose even one member of his family was to lose everything. Every part of him wanted to rush towards Peter, to help defend his flank and for them to emerge victorious together, but he knew that he couldn’t do that._

_Edmund was not Peter. He was not strong, courageous. It was like him to run with his tail tucked between his legs. A fitting course of action for a traitor, right?_

_Amongst the disorientation and chaos, Edmund put up little fight when it came to Mr. Beaver. He let him drag him up the rocky slope towards home, away from the battle and closer to safety._

_He looked back down at the battlefield. He immediately recognized Peter, swinging left and right and bashing anything that stood in his way, and there it was again, that urge to go to him—the instinct to protect his family. Just as he paused and Mr. Beaver released his hand to scamper further up the rocks, Edmund noticed someone else, not too far from where Peter himself stood, dressed in gold and gray and standing tall, powerful._

_The White Witch. Jadis._

_The breath caught in his throat as he beheld her moving elegantly and uncaringly past her enemies. Edmund knew first hand how dangerous the woman was, and he was entirely aware of how, in this moment, she was not vulnerable or weak, and any man who thought as much was a fool. From the sky, he saw two gryphons like regal bullets zip through the air, and before they so much as dove for her, he knew what was to come. She saw them easily, was alerted by their shrieking cries and loud wings beating. The first had its wing butchered by her sword and fell against the rocks, while the other was met by the end of her wand, which, as it glowed a horrible white, turned it to clean to stone, its figure shattering into a million pieces as it collided with jagged earth._

_Edmund remembered, then, what Jadis had done to Fox. He remembered pleading for his life in exchange for his sisters and brother (a decision which continued to haunt him and turn his blood to ice), only for the woman to pierce his fur with that same wand. His final cry, his look of abject horror—neither of these were lost on Edmund. He knew for a fact that, if Peter laid his eyes on her, he would be met with a similar fate._

_He had to get rid of that wand. He had to break it. Maybe then, Narnia would stand a chance against her wrath._

_From its sheath, Edmund brought out his sword, the sound of it hissing never failing to make his stomach drop. Edmund guessed that Mr. Beaver, who had realized the younger Pevensie had fallen behind, could see that same reckless abandon in his soul as he did Peter, because soon enough, he was piping up fearfully, skittering back to him and trying to coax him towards safety._

_“Peter said to get out of here—”_

_“Peter’s not king yet,” Edmund snapped, and before Mr. Beaver could argue any further, he was skidding back on down, maneuvering as well as one could around rocks and blood-slickened grass._

I have to do this. It’s the only way _, he thought to himself, and despite the fear that screamed at him and begged him to turn back, he kept moving forward, forward, closer to Jadis. Wild boars and minotaurs and humans went wild around him, and even if he was only a boy, he ducked under and shifted around them easily, too focused on his goal to care much about how uncomfortable his armor was, or how close those arrows were fizzing past his head. A sprint that only took a few seconds felt like years to him, and during every single one of those seconds, he was terrified that he wasn’t going to make it—all it took was a heartbeat for the battle to shift, and he had no idea when she would find that opportunity and take it._

_Suddenly, Edmund found himself attempting to strike down his blade against the wand. Jadis, though, she was quick, much quicker than a child, and moved out of the way just in time, and Edmund got to see the absolute rage in her eyes in her eyes for what had to be the last time as she moved to strip him of his life._

_Again, he recalled Fox. He remembered the butterfly, all the statues that had adorned her frozen courtyard like trophies, the gryphon that had turned to dust because it hit the ground too hard, too fast. That would be him, wouldn’t it? Petrified and cold, blind and deaf, unsure of whether or not he were alive or dead. So many would follow in his footsteps, foolhardy creatures thinking they were what it took to rob the White Witch of her major power source._

_Then the world was alight, and his hands felt as if they were frozen and the ground beneath him hardened for a moment, before all thawed and he could still see, breathe. The grip around the hilt of his sword was tight, white-knuckled he was sure, and at the realization that one of Jadis’ hands was free, there was something akin to a brief flicker of pride._

_Jadis continued to look plenty pissed off, just as he continued to be plenty frightened._

_The war raged on, but for those last seconds, it was only them. As cold a gaze as Jadis had, it was burning hot right now. There was no hesitation in her attack; despite being a witch without her wand, she remained fierce, an unholy force. Although he did not expect to survive the initial strike, finding it dumb luck that he might be able to destroy the wand, Edmund had no idea how he would get out of this one. Their weapons clashed and twirled, and he could tell that she was playing with him, like a cat playing with its food before it went in for the kill, and though he managed to deflect once, twice, there was a voice in the back of his head prior to the third hit that says_ It’s time. 

_Her blade sunk easily into the soft of his gut and all of the air left his lungs as if it has been punched out of him. Warmth spread up and down his side, and she watched as he stumbled back, dropping his sword as he went. It’s a better fate than being frozen for all of eternity, he thought—dying defending the people he loves and cares about. Maybe it was a little dramatic, to accept that that was his fate so quickly and without question. Through the haze that had begun to creep into the corners of his vision and the fog that battered at his mind, he saw Peter just behind Jadis, looking dead at him, mouth open in a scream. Edmund let out a shaky breath, and before he knew it, his back was hitting the grass, head thumping against the warm metal of his helmet._

_Hands instinctively went to the newfound gash in his side, but every movement was stiff, held back by the jolts of pain that scolded him. Peter had seen him fall, had seen him get wounded, and if Edmund had any idea of the type of person that Peter was, he would come rushing in a blind rage. That was encouragement enough to feel somewhat criminal in his decision, for even without the threat of her wand, Jadis was a woman who had doomed the entirety of Narnia once before, and they were simply children, after all, raised in war but never trained for it. Peter, lasting as long as he had, had already proved himself as a warrior, although they are only so lucky. Aslan can only do so much for them. If Lucy and Susan (whom he was unaware of the status of; to Edmund, they could very well be dead right now, something that made it a little more difficult for him to properly breathe) were still alive, they would be without their brothers, and whose fault would that be? Whose fault but his own? The absolute idiot who had led the White Witch to them all, who had sparked her hunger for blood without even thinking. He had, in the end, disabled her, but only so much._

_Sounds and senses melted together, and Edmund slowly grew numb to the aching of his wound and the taste of copper on his tongue. The sun still beat against his limp body warmly, heating the chainmail that hung a bit too awkwardly on his frame and the vibrant red cloth that concealed the color of his blood seeping through. The world, slowly, became a dream, one where the light was bright and the sensations were dull. He was truly going to die here, wasn’t he? A traitor weakly attempting to mend all the bad he had done to this place, wilting in a puddle of his own blood, shed for a cause that had terrified him all of his life. There was a moment, as he dipped in and out of cool nothingness and the light did not reach through his eyelids, where he felt hands on him—not violent or aggressive, just calm, soft. Fingers brushed through his hair and cupped his cheeks and someone uttered his name, and all that came to mind was his mother. Edmund, scared, thinking himself alone, wanted nothing more than to curl up in her lap as he used to when he was younger and not quite as sharpened by the reality of all around him, and cry. She would tell him that everything was okay and that she was there with him, that she would protect him, that his father would protect him, and he would be so deliriously comforted by all her whispers of reassurance that he would finally drift into sleep, very suddenly unconcerned with everything._

I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry, Peter, Susan, and Lucy. I should have been better. I should have been better.

_He sighed, and the hands disappeared, as did the incoherent mutterings and the sun and the pain._

( - - - - )

Edmund’s eyes snapped open to darkness, and it felt as if his entire chest was aflame. Breathing was ragged and raspy, and desperately, he moved his palms over his side where the Witch had struck him, mind convincing him that the gaping hole was still there and that he was gushing, gushing blood. In the pale moonlight that managed to drip coolly into his room mixed with muddled thoughts of death and dying, he saw her, Jadis—standing at the end of his bed with white eyes, her pale fur coat hanging delicately on thin shoulders, so misleading to her true character. She was so real in the moment, too real, opaque wisps of cold slipping from her moon-colored lips with the hint of an unspoken promise. Without skipping a beat, Edmund fumbled for the hilt at his bedside, having to glance over briefly to locate it, but by the time he managed to grab it and hold it out in front of him like some scared, wild animal baring its fangs, she was gone, replaced by quiet nothingness. 

It took a few moments for him to realize that he was okay, and that the war was over and he was no longer caught fighting in it. There remained an uneasiness in him as he tried to steady himself, throat struggling to relax while the tears that burned his eyes rolled from the corners and down freckled cheeks unabashed. Slowly, he allowed his sword to gently fall against his blanket, where it was held loosely, uselessly. 

“It was a dream. Just a dream,” he tried to reassure himself, wiping at the sweat that made his hair cling uncomfortably to his forehead with the back of his hand. 

This was not the first time the nightmares had awoken him, and if the severity and vividity of them was anything to go off of, Edmund assumed that it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But, thankfully, a trend he had begun to notice was exhausted stupefaction following the initial panic. Where muscles had previously been tense seconds before, they now took on the weight of lead, and as distasteful as sleep sounded right about now, Edmund was sure that, if he just lied back down and tried to forget about everything, he would fall into unconsciousness. Unfortunately, given everything, he had done well to avoid that. It was too close to dying a second time, in his opinion. 

It was with that that his mind made a point of reminding him that it was not, in fact, just a dream, but a memory. That made the nerves around his scar twitch anxiously, and he grunted to himself, pressing down in the hopes of calming them down. 

Hesitantly, Edmund set his sword back to its place against the stone wall, careful not to let it fall and clatter. The hallways of this place were long, prone to echoes, and he was sure no one would admire him for sending the castle into a frenzy for a sword slipping noisily. So much as imaging the sound made his heart race weakly. No one wanted to hear that. When he was confident it wouldn’t fall, he stealthily got to his feet, a chill dancing up his spine at the contact with shaded marble. Carpets would be wonderful for late night walks, but Edmund understood that Narnia did not have such luxuries, not yet. Most was burned to survive the Winter, he had been told. Surviving with cold feet was no great accomplishment, and he was fine to wander, so long as the air held its warmth. Which, thus far, it had, thanks to Aslan. 

Once he reached the door of his room, ready to open the door and slip into the night to distract himself, he paused. Edmund and his siblings had only been technical royalty for a few days now, and though Narnia was a healing kingdom not prepared for another major fight, there was little for anyone to worry about—regardless, the Pevensie found himself being nagged by subtle paranoia, something whispering to him, _Take the sword. You have to take it with you_. He glanced back at the wretched thing, no longer bloodied but still dangerous in the right (and wrong) hands, and tapped his foot anxiously against the floor. Logically, he would not be in any immediate danger, but from the perspective of a boy who had tasted war on his tongue and had died one too many times already...begrudgingly, he slipped on his sheath and tucked the weapon inside, and left the darkness of his room in favor of the cold, empty maze that was their castle that he had yet to memorize.

Barefoot and alone, he went in no particular direction, seeking no particular obstruction. That was how he had spent the last couple of nights, and so far, although it had done nothing for him physically, it was, at the very least, a temporary solution to what he was sure would wind up being a permanent problem. Better than going back to sleep only to find himself cocooned in ice and fur, anyway. 

Fingertips traced the grooves in the stone walls, and he wondered, absentmindedly, what his mother might think of the lot of them becoming kings and queens. They had only just started, with not a single clue of what they were doing, but Aslan (and the people) had hope for them, so that had to mean something of their future success. Would she be proud of them? Would she fear for them as they feared for one another? Would she look upon Edmund specifically and wonder how her baby could present himself so silly and fantastically? The idea made the muscles of his throat tighten and his teeth clench: it didn’t help that he was nervous about his brother and sister’s own stances on the matter. Lucy, she was the exception to it all, being the one who accepted him the easiest and had taken less issue with him becoming _King_ , but Peter, Susan...they didn’t quite share her sentiments. Neither would their mother, he supposed. Disregarding, his crown and his name were some of the few things he adored about this place. He had Aslan to thank for the favor. 

It might have been one of the reasons he had fallen so easily for Jadis’ tricks, despite how obvious her deception was. _Son of Adam_? _King of Narnia_? Such flattery and embrace was foreign, made his heart all the more warm and vulnerable. In the end, he genuinely was an idiot for believing she cared. He was sure his mother would have a field day with how horribly he screwed up. He could almost laugh, yet made sure to keep his mouth shut, not eager to wake anyone. 

Three turns and one staircase later, Edmund didn’t have any better clue of where he was or where he was going, and the bitterness of previous thoughts still clung fresh to his mind. Part of him wished that Fox was here right now, just to keep him company—unfortunately, he was a busy creature, one who had better things to do at the moment than reassure a lonely, inexperienced king, such as sleep or eat or literally anything else. The thought of seeing him made the guilt and the grief that hadn’t yet left the pit of his stomach since the battle worse, anyhow. Edmund had faced Fox once already, at the coronation. He didn’t know if he could do it again with the same confidence. Ever the coward at heart, huh?

He came to one of the many tall windows of Cair Paravel, and with great disinterest, much greater than a boy his age should probably hold, he set his hands upon the sill and looked out over his new home. It was something straight out of one of the fantasy books his father and mother had read to him when he was younger, the kind with beautiful illustrations speaking of wonderful adventures where, when things went wrong, they were easily fixed and didn’t bother the characters in the long run. Never in his life had he thought he would actually find a place like this, although he had dreamed—he had dreamed plenty, alright, and God, was it strange. It was not all niceties like his childhood innocence had hoped, of course, his shoulders becoming a little bit heavier and his heart a little more dead ever since he had arrived, but it was still...a fairy tale. An escape, even if a weak one. His heart lurched at the concept that he might not be fit to rule this admittedly magnificent kingdom, that although they had gotten this far, it was not Edmund’s true place to be here. Fists became balled against the smooth of the sill, and he took a deep breath.

When would they leave all of this behind? When would this no longer be the _real_ world? Had the war actually been for anything at all?

“Ed?”

Edmund jumped, every nerve and panicked instinct in his body going into overdrive at the abruptness of his name. Turning as if he had just been scalded, through the dim moonlight he could make out Peter’s tired frame, his golden hair a comical mess. Edmund wasn’t sure if he had much room to make fun of his brother: after all, he certainly couldn’t look any better, now could he? 

“You _scared_ me. Don’t sneak up on me like that you **sod** ,” he told him, overwhelmed by a tenseness that refused to soothe. 

Peter scowled, and Edmund expected him to fold his arms over his chest, until he realized that, similarly to himself, he was armed, only he was actually _holding_ his sword. Golden and brilliant and lethal. He wondered if Peter had kept count of how many lives his had taken, too. It might be better not to ask that. He was rude, but sometimes, there was a line, and that was not one he wanted to cross, especially if Peter were going to ask him the same thing. 

“It’s late. You should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

Edmund could _feel_ Peter’s eye twitch from where he stood. Infuriating his brother, now that was a good distraction, wasn’t it? Peter nodded towards his belt and asked, not sounding as curious as he likely meant to, “What’s up with the sword?”

“It’s for decoration,” Edmund droned, rolling his eyes.

There was a lengthy pause that passed between them. Peter, trying to figure out what else he was meant to say in this situation, and Edmund, readying his deflections and steeling himself for whatever questions might arise. This was the first time that Peter had caught him wandering, though if he had to guess, he was pretty sure he was already aware of this developing habit. For all their differences, the two Pevensie’s were far more alike than either would admit, and it was because of this that Edmund could also figure Peter had found himself in the same exact rut. Wouldn’t be surprising. 

“You know,” Peter began, and already Edmund wanted him to shut up, “If you can’t sleep, Lucy is fine with you two sharing a bed. There’s nothing wrong with that—”

“That’s not the problem, Peter—”

“Then why are you slinking around in the dark like some sort of... _kicked dog_? People who sleep well don’t wander, and they certainly don’t carry weapons on them like they’ll be attacked at any moment,” Peter retorted. Edmund’s jaw fell open to object, but for once, he couldn’t come up with a smartass response. Or, rather, he didn’t want to. Mouth snapping shut, he ducked his head, and, seeing no way out of this, he leaned absentmindedly beside the window, crossing his arms defensively. Peter sighed, ran his free hand down his face. “You need to rest, Ed. We’re all tired, we’re all scared, but you...you need to let yourself heal.”

 _You need to let yourself heal_. An incredibly weird statement to hear from Peter, one that caught Edmund off-guard. He was so accustomed to the banter that occurred between them that this whole conversation was treading dangerously close to unchartered territory, and Edmund wanted him to just say something stupid so he could divert the topic. Unfortunately, for the first time in all the years Edmund had known his brother, Peter looked to be squared in his resolve, calculating whereas oftentimes he held nothing but disregard and recklessness. Speaking to Edmund in the manner he was was, of course, a display of similar unabashedness he was used to, but it was all wrong. Mismatched pieces. The High King was, dare he say, disgustingly mature for right now.

“From _what_?” Edmund inquired, squinting. “You know we’re both carrying, right? We’re both walking around at midnight? If you want to give someone a pep-talk, why not just give yourself one?”

Peter simply looked at him. Stared blankly, tiredly, at a loss. If there was anyone that Edmund had worn thin over the years, it was Peter, and he could see the effect taking hold in this moment. War had chipped away at Peter and hurt him like everyone else, and he was not making his life any easier. He hadn’t made it any easier on him. It is with a remorseful pang that Edmund remembered Peter had watched him die and held him as the life left his body for those handful of seconds. Edmund, he had lost a part of himself that day, but so had Peter. So had Lucy and Susan. Edmund was a dead man walking, only breathing because Aslan will it, and because Lucy had been quick enough to reach him before he was gone for good. 

Just as that haunted him, Edmund only imagined how it haunted Peter. 

He was the one to speak up, mouth seeming to work on autopilot, and as much as he wanted to sew his lips shut, all he could do was listen to himself blather. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” Peter’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt, much to Edmund’s chagrin. “The fight, the White Witch—I can’t stop. When I wake up, she’s there, and I can’t breathe and it feels like I’m frozen, and I…” 

The corridor was uncomfortably quiet when he stopped to gather his thoughts. He cringed. The urge to say more was nauseating, to just keep rambling until his eyes began to burn and his scar flared again—only Peter was there to weigh him down, save him from the pathetic display he was moments away from putting on. Peter’s arms were a vaguely unfamiliar mass on his shoulders; needed, albeit odd. He couldn’t recall the last time the two of them had seriously hugged, not like this. Despite his best efforts to regain his snarky composure, Edmund crumbled, just slightly, and when he returned the gesture to Peter, he relaxed.

“You need to rest, halfwit,” he mutters to him, and it was clear that Peter wasn’t keen on having this conversation just yet, either. “We’ve got big days ahead of us. If you’re not going to take care of yourself for us, at least do it for the people out _there_.”

He less forced him to look out the window and more so simply encouraged him. Cair Paravel looked so quiet and peaceful this time of night, and at first, it didn’t appear that there was a single living soul within its walls, but Edmund knew of all the sleeping humans and fauna and animals that resided in each proud building. 

“We’re king’s now, Ed,” Peter half-whispered, staring out alongside his brother.

Edmund sniffed—not from the tears he had repressed, but from a weasley attempt at stifling a bitter chuckle. “We’re _boys_ , Pete. And when did you become so— **sober**?”

Peter didn’t look at him. Edmund saw his jaw tense, and that’s all he needed: _Ever since we fought in a war, and ever since my brother died_. Edmund huffed, offering feigned frustration, and that was how they held themselves. Posed in front of the open window, admiring Cair Paravel in terrified wonder, Peter’s arm slung protectively around Edmund’s shoulder, and Edmund greedy for the warmth, attention.

“We aren’t boys, Ed. Not anymore. You know that as well as I do,” Peter eventually said softly, and Edmund hated to admit it, but he was right. Boys did not do what they had done to survive. Boys did not fight for their lives and the lives of those around them. He couldn’t tell when they had stopped being boys precisely, however, if he had to guess, it would be the millisecond they stepped into Narnia and tied the strings of fate around their own throats. Some might say it was when they tasted blood for the first time, literally or metaphorically, both held the same weight, but Edmund disagreed. As he thought on it, maybe they had never been _boys_. Maybe they had never been innocent or wide-eyed at the greatness of the world. Maybe Narnia just helped them realize that. 

It’s all too awkward. Close to perfect, maybe, but as much as Edmund preferred long silences to active chatter, there was an aspect to Peter on this night that unsettled him greatly. Moving his head so he might be able to look at him, Edmund asked Peter, mimicking his not-all-too-curious tone from earlier, “Why are you walking around with your sword out?”

“Thought I heard something,” he replied, exhaling. “One of the castle’s fauns was lost. I helped her find where she was supposed to be, and then just kept walking. She wasn’t the only one looking dreadfully turned around, apparently.”

“I’m not turned around,” Edmund commented.

“Then where are we?” Peter countered, brow cocked, still refusing to make eye contact with the other. 

His mind went blank. “In Cair Paravel.”

He pat his shoulder before his arm returned to his side. “Smartass. But, close enough.”

A beat. “You were talking about yourself, weren’t you?”

Finally, Peter looked him in his eyes, and, with such seriousness that Edmund was partially worried the conversation was going to dip again, he stated, “How _dare_ you. I’ve never been turned around in my life.”

Ah. There it is. 

Edmund was on the verge of saying something that would absolutely cause Peter to take offense. Before he could, Peter interrupted him, glancing around them lazily and inquiring with little fascination, “These halls echo, don’t they? How deep do you think everyone is sleeping right now?”

“Huh?” was all Edmund could conjure, boy dumbfounded by the question.

“I wouldn’t want to wake anyone up if I were to do— _this_!”

Pain shot up Edmund’s arm, and suddenly, Peter was gone. Baffled, he rubbed at his shoulder and watched as Peter began to disappear down the hall, trying to register what had just happened. Then, not even a second later, it dawned on him that Peter had seriously made the decision to play tag. At night. After being crowned High King and giving Edmund a small lecture that was essentially about how they needed to act like royalty.

Although the idea of just letting him run around like an idiot sounded amazing, there was something in Edmund that couldn’t refuse the challenge. 

The only soul they would fortunately awaken was that of Lucy, who had roused to the sound of Edmund complaining as Peter dragged him effortlessly into her room, and Peter apologizing (to only her, obviously) for waking her. Edmund did not think it was in Peter’s plan for himself to pass out beside his younger brother and sister, but that was the fate he was met with, and it was one Susan, in the morning, would be content to bully him about upon discovering them in a tangle of limbs. That would be, perhaps, Edmund’s first night of restful sleep in Narnia.


End file.
